Amanda

 

Amanda

 

There is beauty on the outside and then there is beauty on the inside.  When the two come together in the same being it is rare and incredibly precious.  You know you are witnessing true beauty as their light shines so very bright.

Amanda was just that light.  She entered a room and washed it with her light and everyone smiled.  We all smiled around Amanda because she smiled at the world.  She loved life and her place in it and we could all see that every day. Beautiful people sometimes have beautiful children and Amanda had three and their lights continue to shine.

One day Amanda’s light dimed very slightly as she heard the news.  A slow dim that suspended in time as others digested the inevitable.  All our lights dimed but then we noticed that Amanda’s light was shining through it all.  We felt ashamed of our dimed lights and did our best to reflect Amanda’s bright, white light.  There was, however, no competing with that light so we just looked on in awe. 

Over time the light still shone but a slow fade trickled in from the edges.  We could see the fade but ignored its presence and focused on the centre of the light.  Not once did that fade in all those long and difficult days.  She shone, so we shone.

The day arrived and we took our lights and gathered around Amanda’s dimming light.  Slowly and with enormous grace her light faded until it was almost gone.  Afterwards, if we looked very carefully we could see the smallest pin prick of a light glowing.  Some of us gathered it up and put it in our pockets to carry around with us.

When the day came to say goodbye I was not there.  Instead I was by a deep green pond flooded with bright sunshine and it was there that I saw them.  Hovering and flickering their lights as they dusted in and out of the lilies.  Beautiful shining dragonflies carrying their lights in their wings.  As I stood they flew high up into the blue sky before circling me and bathing me in the most precious light of all.  She was, indeed here and she has always been here.  Her light was in those delicate but powerful wings.  Just look into the light and she will shine back very brightly indeed.

This is Amanda

Short Story

My last Dance

The rain tumbled onto the roof above, far above.  As I listened I could hear the music beginning to sing, just as it always did.  I was glad to be able to rely on the music and slowly I began to create.  Dance flows from my soul and I needed to shape movements more than ever before.  In that moment I could disappear from all around me that was tugging at me, desperately trying to connect with the experience of death.  But this was my death and no-one was going to dictate my passing, except maybe the music….

Reality beckoned as I heard the familiar voice of my daughter entering the room.  She was already trying to take control with her very first utterances ‘Close the curtains, it is too bright in here’.

I liked the light, I was looking forward to the light tunnel that so many people talk about.  I think it will be spectacular.  I went back to my music to seek new movement and translate it to my story that was beginning to take shape.  My story captured the rain drops and tossed them out to sea where waves picked them up and tossed them back.  A battled ensued deep in the body as it curled and revolved, swayed and stretched reaching every raindrop one by one.

Suddenly my dance faded once more as a hand gripped mine.  A hand that once belonged to a stranger ,but no more.  A hand that had lived a lifetime by my side and I had loved that hand.  I still love that hand.

‘She is so cold, too cold’

I wasn’t cold at all.  I was calm and I was still but I wasn’t cold.  I could never be cold with that hand so close.  The hand that took my when we promised our vows and the hand that stroked me deep in the night.  I love that hand.

My music returned with the greatest of flurry as the raindrops peered beyond the storm to catch the clouds and curl them up.  My body rolled forward with the lightest of touch only to turn and roll again.  The rain clouds all dappled and grey parted slowly and slowly….I could feel it.  My heart was slowing, my organs failing and in that space I clung to my music.

Gentler voices echoed through the room muffled by silence and waiting.  The waiting was sure to cast its own spell but I didn’t care for that spell.  My music was coming to an end.  Quivering drops as the rainstorm passed and peeped through the window to spread their joy.  The hand was still there.  The music was still there.  But there was no light, it faded fast and the music dulled. 

I listened so carefully to those final sounds grasping at the notes that floated through the air before resting between our hands.  A space, the slightest space between our hands.  Shuffled movements and whispers abound as I took a moment to catch the sounds and trapped them deep in my soul.  But it was the music, those final notes, that spoke to me last and so they might.

I am going to sleep now and I won’t hear anymore music.  Night night.

 

A Tribute.xx

 

Where flowers come to die. 

As I turned the corner the image that fell into view took me there in an instant.  I struggled to focus and take it all in, but I knew I had found the place.  It might have taken me over 18 years but this was definitely the place.  But I wasn’t alone so I pushed the feelings to the deep recess and concentrated on taking the photographs.  I didn’t want to capture this image but I absolutely knew that I had to.  I could then visit this place as often as I wanted to and that would surely give me some comfort in the years ahead. 

It had been over 18 years, I knew that because my lovely daughter Molly is 18 now and how she shines.  She shines everywhere she goes and she is my guiding light.  When she arrived into the world I could feel the beginning of my healing and I truly believe that, over the years, she has healed me.  She came into my life and helped to rub out what had gone before.  A new baby breathes life into your world in a way that you can never imagine and Molly did that for me.  Everything changed after Molly arrived.  I became a different person with a different set of needs and desires and that spilled out into my life and has continued to spill all these years.  So I am grateful for Molly and I will always be grateful. 

Sometimes, just occasionally, I realise that her arrival was not quite enough.  I realise that the pain is still there and I can feel it in every nerve in my body.  It begins quite slowly at first but eventually it crushes my breathing and it crushes my soul.  I have no control as I submit to the pain as it washes over me and takes me back to that journey. 

A journey that started with such joy and such certainty.  From the very beginning I knew it was right and I knew it was a journey that I need to travel on just to see how it would end.  I never, however, imagined it would end as it did.  Was it always going to end like that?  I like to think that it ended quite suddenly with no pain.  I couldn’t bear it if there was any pain.

Granted, it was a relatively short journey but to me it felt a lot longer.  It filled me with fear and hope, both at the same time and that is a very powerful combination.  You fear to hope and that puts your entire life on the edge.  Living on the edge is dangerous but it makes you feel alive.  I felt alive and I felt its life and the two became one.  Throughout the journey I held conversations.  Single words to start with and then short phrases and, eventually, whole stories.  Since those early days and that journey I have always told stories.  My four wonderful children have listened to my stories all their lives and I am grateful for their kind ears.  Stories should be told and then mostly forgotten.  Just occasionally a story will be remembered.  I remember this story and I will never forget it.  I could never forget it and will take it into death with me.  It is perhaps the only story I will take into death with me.

I remember the day those stories shortened once more and became a single word.  It became a name and I held onto each syllable as the name arrived and became real.  It became as real as the sky above.  It too was full and empty both at the same time and, like the sky, it was beautiful.  From that point on the stories became fuller and the conversations more meaningful and I loved that new part of the journey.  I made lots of promises.  I promised to always do my best and always be there and I meant every word.  In the many, many stories that I have told my four children I have always made sure there is something real in there.  Sometimes it is quite small and sometimes it is hidden, but it is always there.  I hope that one day they will remember the real bits as they are my messages to them.  I want those messages to keep them safe when I am not around every day to watch over them.  When they leave to become whole I want the messages to follow them around.  Molly will leave soon but I know, without any doubt, that she understands her messages and that she will hold onto them very dearly.  I know a lot about Molly.

Despite all the stories and all the messages this short, but precious journey is the greatest of them all.  As it reached its final stage I had no knowing.  I had no sense that it was about to end and perhaps that is why I have never let the journey finish.  When I turned the corner and saw my image I knew that I had to let at least part of the journey end.  Lying on small woodland floor were so many flowers just starting to curl and brown at their edges. Just starting to die and let go.  They looked beautiful and they looked after each other.  The light streamed in through the trees and rested on their petals and kept them warm.  These beautiful warm flowers were dying and I knew that but I wasn’t sad.  I stepped into them very gently to take a better photograph and, in that moment, something escaped from me.  It seeped away slowly and took its place among the flowers and I stepped back.  I had no sense of what that was and I am not sure I wanted to know.

I found it difficult to leave that space.  I felt that I was leaving something behind.  But I did leave and once, along the path, I turned to look back.  I couldn’t see the dying flowers anymore but I could see the path that led there and that was enough for me.  It was as if I could see the journey all over again.  I could remember every day, hour and second of that 13 week journey and I could remember the life that was growing inside me.  I could remember his name, Thomas, and I could remember our conversations.  I loved the hope and I hated the fear, but above all I mourned that I didn’t know the journey was going to end.  I thought I knew the ending.  Thomas would arrive just like his little sister did almost a year later.  He would be mine just as she is mine.   

Thomas did not arrive as Molly did.  One crisp Christmas morning he seeped away from me and I tried so hard to hold onto him.  I felt that I had let him down and I still feel like that.  I wanted to keep him safe and he just seeped away and I never even saw him.  The doctor saw him and just wrapped him up and he was gone.  When he left me I still told him stories.  That night, Christmas night, I told him stories with messages to keep him safe and messages to tell him how much I loved him.  I have always loved him, but now he has truly left me.  Once more he seeped away from me but this time I was ready to let him go.  My beautiful baby boy was sleeping among the warm flowers. When I die I will return to that spot and collect him.  I will take him into death with me so that I can always keep him safe.  For now, though, he is safe and he is warm and I can tell stories to my five children and just hope that my tiny messages are getting through.

 

xxxxx

If we could fly with dragonflies.

 

 

If we could fly with dragonflies

 

If we could fly with the dragonflies we would see so much in such tiny spaces. 

We would see colours darting through the light and raindrops drifting in the wind.

Our world would be small but precious and wrapped up in with such care.

The green pond water would reflect our glow as our wings brushed the water lilies that chuckle below. 

We would paint a picture and puncture it with tiny holes and then tuck in our wings and fly right through. 

The breeze would gather force and catch us in an instant before carrying us higher and higher to float with the clouds. 

After some rest in the sky above we would dive right back into our world and catch tiny movements at the end of the pond.

Collecting those movements to feed our souls we would gently fly to find the right leaf. 

Once found, we would hover and then sit to watch all around as light danced with the bees and flowers shook with glee. 

Our wings would stretch to soak up the sun before batting it back as fast as it had come.

 

If we could fly with the dragonflies we would cherish our world and turn on the lights inside our wings.

If we could fly with the dragonflies our days would be short but our life would be full.

Poor Mr McGregor

Mr McGregor is an elderly gardener who makes his first appearance in The Tale of Peter Rabbit (1902). He was originally intended to share title honors with Peter. Potter's manuscript title was The Tale of Peter Rabbit and Mr. McGregor's Garden but McGregor and his garden were dropped when Potter privately published the book in 1902 (wikipedia).

This is my way of putting Mr McGregor back where he belongs.

Poor Mr McGregor

It had rained in the night and this had followed a lovely sunny day. Mr McGregor woke early, wrestling to put his clothes on before emerging from his little wooden house on the edge of a forest. As he stepped onto the porch the sun was just rising and his heart was filled with joy. Mr McGregor was a simple man. He lived a simple life with his wife in their well-appointed little house. His pride and joy, however, was his vegetable garden. He lovingly tended to its every need all through the year.

In the winter he cleared and tidied before feeding his beloved soil with manure and leaving it to rot down. This manure was pure gold and ensured that next year’s crop was better than the year before. Spring was a very busy time with lots of preparation to be done. Seeds to be sown and new beds to be made and Mr McGregor liked to look important at this time of the year. From time to time other local growers would pay him a visit just to ask him what he was planning to grow that year. He liked that.

Summer was when Mother Nature took over. She nursed her little seedlings as they grew into bigger plants and the vegetables began to take shape. Of course, Mr McGregor helped Mother Nature in her quest by weeding and protecting his precious vegetables from harm. Towards the end of the summer and into the autumn was harvest time. This was the best time of the year and Mr McGregor got so excited he was fit to burst!

An idyllic tale so far, but it was not always like that. Mr McGregor had an enemy. An enemy that lingered in the tall grass next to his patch and just waited. He waited until there was no-one about and then took his fill of Mr McGregor’s vegetables! This enemy was none other than a pesky rabbit. This rabbit was no ordinary rabbit. For a start he wore a blue coat with shiny gold buttons. Have you ever seen such a thing? This rabbit was prepared to take risks and would sometimes take a last munch just as Mr McGregor came down the path.

There was no room for rabbits today. This was a very special day. This was show day. Mr McGregor’s vegetables would take pride of place on the table alongside fellow growers as they battled it out for the ‘Best in Show’ award. This trophy was rightfully his and, indeed, he had won it many times. But not last year. Last year was a disaster. The weather was against him and his vegetables just didn’t grow as he would expect. When he took his harvest to the show his heart sank. He looked at the competition and he knew he couldn’t win. Mr McGregor was heart- broken and took to his bed. He stayed in his bed a whole month and refused to get out. Eventually he did get out and somehow found the will to carry on…

But that was last year. This is this year and this is show day! For weeks Mr McGregor has been watching his prize winning (for that is what he liked to call them) radishes, beetroot and carrots swell and grow. When he went to bed last night he could hardly contain his excitement. A whole years work was about to come good with, possibly, the best vegetables Mr McGregor had ever grown.

As he strode confidently down the path he thought he caught a movement just out of the corner of his eye. He quickly scanned the vegetable patch for signs of ‘Rabbit’ but nothing. He turned his gaze to the long grass and there it was. A small, but by now, very familiar white tail. ‘Rabbit’ was out and about early so Mr McGregor would have to have his wits about him. He quickly doubled back to the potting shed and armed himself with a spade. A nice heavy spade, just perfect for the job. He vowed quietly to himself that this was to be ‘Rabbit’s’ last day. ‘Rabbit’ had pestered him all summer diving into his beloved patch and simply helping himself. Well no more. Nothing was going to stand in the way of Mr McGregor collecting ‘Best in Show’ this year, not even a pesky rabbit.

Once more on the path Mr McGregor scanned the long grass for that unwelcome white tail. It had vanished. There was no white tail in the long grass so, reluctantly, he turned his attention to his vegetable patch. He could not believe his eyes. ‘Rabbit’ was sitting next to his prize radishes and chomping his way through his prize carrots. In a second Mr McGregor was across the paths that crisscrossed his patch and charging towards the pesky creature. As was the way with these daily battles Mr McGregor’s age lost him the opening race. ‘Rabbit’ was off like a rocket, leaving poor Mr McGregor to lumber after him waving his spade in the air. But this time had to be different. ‘Rabbit’ had to be caught and dealt with once and for all. ‘Dealt with’ meant Mrs McGregor’s cooking pot for a delicious rabbit stew. A stew with ‘Rabbit’ would be a stew indeed….

As the daily ritual unfolded ‘Rabbit’ was quickly out of sight once more and poor Mr McGregor began the hunting phase. He knew he was here somewhere, if only he could find him… Searching every pot, basket and corner Mr McGregor held his breath. The stakes had never been higher and he must catch ‘Rabbit’ today. Suddenly there was the tiniest of noise coming from the corner of the shed. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, Mr McGregor moved towards the noise raising his spade high ready for that fatal blow. Just at the very second he got there a flash of blue skipped across his path. ‘Rabbit.’ With no hesitation Mr McGregor crashed the spade down, only missing by millimetres. As ‘Rabbit’ chased towards the doorway Mr McGregor turned grabbing at that familiar blue coat. One tug, just one tug was all that was needed and Rabbit would be trapped. Mr McGregor tugged as hard as his old hands would let him. He had him! At last he had him. The force of the tug threw Mr McGregor backwards and he fell to the ground. As quickly as he could he pulled ‘Rabbit’ to him ready to deliver the final blow. To his absolute horror he realised that ‘Rabbit’ was away and free. All that remained of this last desperate battle was the blue coat. Slumping to the ground in complete and utter despair, Mr McGregor knew he had lost. He had lost the fight to save his precious prize vegetables and he had, no doubt, lost ‘Best in Show’ for the second year running. Wearily, he got to his feet and ambled down the path that reached the centre of his pathways. Erected proudly was his trusty friend the scarecrow. Never mind, thought Mr McGregor, at least Scarecrow has a nice warm coat for winter.

NEVER MIND! NEVER MIND! It came to him in a rush. He suddenly realised that he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind that ‘Rabbit’ liked nothing better than chomping his way through his prize vegetables. He didn’t mind sharing; after all he always grew far too much. That was it. From now on Mr McGregor would let ‘Rabbit’ eat his fill….

Mr McGregor did not win ‘Best in Show’ that year. In fact, he didn’t even enter the show. If you want a word with Mr McGregor you’ll find him sitting on his porch looking at his beloved vegetable patch. If you look very closely you might just see a white tail in the long grass.

Short Story....2012

I met a man today

I met a man today on my walk. A walk I do most days along the beach near my house. I like to think of it as my beach and often it is. But not today. Today I met a man. I could see him in the distance walking towards me and he reminded me of you. As he got closer I could see that he had your build and his face looked like yours. I tried not to look, but my eyes lifted every so often. Soon, he was right there. He had a large piece of driftwood as a walking stick. He paused and looked right at me. He was about your age and then I realised, in an instance, that he had your smell. He stood still and looked right at me. I stood still and looked right at him. He smiled and it was quite wonderful. The kind of smile that only a man of his age could smile. It said a thousand things and it said nothing. I thought he wasn’t going to speak so I dropped my eyes. He said ‘ Hello’. Not ‘Hi’. I would have been disappointed with ‘Hi’. I raised my eyes almost too slowly. I said ‘Hello’ back and he smiled again. I think I smiled back but I am not sure now. Then there was a moment where we just looked. We looked at each other and in that moment we shared a small sign. A sign that we appreciated each other. A sign that we knew we appreciated each other. It was quite glorious. I think I moved first and then he moved and we passed each other. He planted his stick in the sand as he walked away step by step.

I needed to turn round and look at him. I needed to see his face again and I longed to see the smile again. I kept walking but with a burning, aching feeling welling up inside. I knew he was aching, I just knew. When he was far enough away I took a quick turn and saw that he was climbing up the rocks away from the shore. He was leaving and I ached even more. I turned back to my own walking but only managed a few steps before I turned again. I saw him get into one of those big cars that men often drive and he drove forward. He was leaving so I carried on walking. Another few steps and something made me turn again. He was turning the car round and he was driving close to the shore. He was driving towards me. As he drew level with me the world stopped. It just stopped and then I realised he had stopped just ahead of me. I raised my eyes and I could see him in his rear view mirror. He was looking right at me. I looked back. He smiled. I smiled back, I know I did. I kept looking at that mirror as he slowly drove away.

I can still see your smile.

Through My Eyes.....

Through my eyes…


Through my eyes you see the world
Washed in light as day begins to break
You show me the day as it unravels its tale
And take me by the hand so that I may not fail


Through my eyes you see the world
All caught up in fear and hate
I dare not look but you make me see
Just what the world has to offer me


Through my eyes you see the world
Full of promise with no regrets
As days become nights that stretch away
To chase time but to have no say

Through my eyes you see the world
Centred and calm as peace is found
I take my chance to follow your dream
Without thinking or knowing of your scheme


Through my eyes you take my world
While I stand by and say not a word
I stand so very still to simply wait
As you uncurl and deem my fate.